M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

“I think I know the reason for that,” said Hamish and told her about Peta’s millions.

“Oh, dear, then it must be Crystal. She’s the only one who stood to gain anything out of this.”

“Perhaps. What do you make of her?”

“Crystal? Well, there doesn’t seem to be much to understand. Beautiful in an over-made-up way. Doesn’t dress like a lady, if that’s not too old-fashioned a comment, but more like Eurotrash, the kind who go to wild parties in Paris before they all move on to the south of France, and who end up marrying an ugly millionaire, not for his money, but for his power. The Crystals of this world like autocrats. Would she kill her aunt? I don’t see why. I can tell you, those skimpy tarty clothes of hers cost a small fortune, so her family must be well off.”

“I’ll need to check up on Sean,” sighed Hamish. “I covered up about the cat, but he was heard threatening her, for Archie told me. I’ll try to keep that incident quiet, but if Sean did it or even proves to have a bad criminal record, I’ll need to tell Blair. Why on earth didn’t Johnson check him out?”

“Sean arrived just as that last chef we had walked out. Mr Johnson started him in the kitchen right away on trial and he cooked like a dream, so Mr Johnson was not going to question this gift from the gods at the beginning of the busy season.”

“Keep your ear to the ground,” said Hamish, “and tell me if you can find anything out. That girl, Jenny, told me she felt there was someone mad in the group. She said she sensed it.”

“And when did she say this?”

“She came down to the police station earlier this week.”

“When will you ever learn, Hamish! The little drip made that up to get your attention.”

“Flattering of you to say so, but there might be something in it. Well, I’d best be off and phone my cousin.”

When Hamish walked outside, a forensic team were supervising the loading of the hotel’s Volvo on to a truck. “That was quick,” said Hamish to one of them. “You matched the tyre tracks.”

“Aye,” said the man he had spoken to, “but a fat lot of good it’ll do us. The car was left out in thon storm with the sunroof and the windows all open and the manager here tells me it was soaked and so he got a couple of maids to clean it out thoroughly. I doubt if we’ll get anything from it now.”

“Could it have been left out deliberately?”

“Could hae been. But it was some silly wee lassie, so Johnson says.”

Hamish watched until the car on the back of the truck moved off and went to the police Land Rover. Jenny Trask was sitting in the passenger seat, her face white in the gloom.

“What do you want?” asked Hamish crossly. It had been a long day and he was anxious to get home.

“Why have they taken that car away?” asked Jenny.

“Because that was the car that Peta or her murderer drove up to the quarry.”

“Oh, God.” Jenny put her face in her hands and began to cry.

Hamish sat patiently until her sobs had subsided and then said, “You were the one that left it out in the rain?”

Jenny gulped and nodded.

“That’s no great crime,” he said gently. “Why and when did you take the car out?”

“It was late this morning,” said Jenny tremulously. “I went down to the police station to look for you and you weren’t there. So…so I went into the bar and this man bought me a drink and we got talking. His name is Brian Mulligan.”

“Big Irish chap, works for the forestry?”

Jenny nodded. “I’ll be glad when that one moves on,” said Hamish. “He’s a devil with the women.”

“We drank a lot. He seemed so nice and friendly and so we went back to the hotel and had drinks in the bar and then…and then…I took him up to my room.”

“Aren’t you the shy one,” said Hamish cynically.

“It wasn’t me. It was the drink! And this weird place. I heard the storm but I forgot about the car. Mr Johnson came up to give me a telling off about the car and found me in bed with Brian and now he’ll tell the police.”

“So? You’re free and single. Johnson’s a wee bit strait-laced, but don’t let that worry you.”

“I feel so ashamed,” whispered Jenny. “You must think I’m a slut.”

“No, of course I don’t. Look, you told me the other night that you thought one of the party was mad. Did you mean that?”

“I did at the time,” said Jenny, “but now I’m not so sure. It was the heat, you see, and then…up here, you don’t feel you’re in Britain…like being in a foreign country. I think…I think that’s why I went to bed with Brian. I felt so far away from London, so far away from the conventions.”

Hamish looked at her gloomily. He reflected that she was the kind of nice girl who nonetheless gave British girls such a poor name on the Continent. She belonged to the kind who travelled to, say, Greece, and ended up in bed with a hotel waiter the first night of arrival, liberated by drink and by being so far from home.

“Take my advice,” he said, “and tell Blair about the car. You don’t need to tell him about Mulligan. It’s not as if you need an alibi for that time. I’ll hae a wee word with Mr Johnson.”

“Oh, thank you, Hamish.” Jenny threw her arms about him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek.

Through the windscreen he could see the pale blur of a face at one of the castle windows looking down on them, a face with the shine of blonde hair above. Priscilla!

“Off you go,” he said severely, leaning across her and opening the passenger door.

He drove down to Lochdubh, feeling cross. Why should he care whether Priscilla saw him or not?

He completed his chores and then phoned his cousin, Rory Grant, who worked as a reporter on a London newspaper.

“Hamish! Do you have to call in the middle of the night?” groaned Rory.

“I’m sorry to wake you up,” began Hamish.

“You didn’t wake me up. I’ve just come in after taking one of my colleagues to the funny farm. It’s amazing how people can go stark-raving bonkers on a newspaper and no one notices until they start to eat the carpet or something. That’s the trouble about jobs that encourage eccentrics. So what’s happened? Another murder?”

“Aye, and I’ve some names here for you to check. You do that for me and I’ll give your rag first bite of the cherry when we get the murderer.” He briefly outlined the case and gave Rory a list of the suspects.

After he had put the phone down, he prepared himself for bed, turning over the case in his mind. Would it take someone powerful to hold Peta down and jam an apple in her mouth? Not necessarily. She was such a huge woman that she would flounder like a beached whale.

Rain pattered against the bedroom window and the wind howled down the loch outside. The halcyon days of summer were over, although it was still August. Winter came early in the far north.

He cursed Peta in his heart for having brought death to his village. If ever a woman had been begging to be murdered, that woman was Peta Gore!

∨ Death of a Glutton ∧

6

Dawn to Gehenna or up to the Throne,

He travels the fastest who travels alone.

—Rudyard Kipling

Another day dawned wet and windy. The members of Checkmate were turned out of their rooms, which had already been searched but which were to be searched again. The typewritten note supposed to have come from Peta had not been typed on any machine at the hotel. But Crystal volunteered that her aunt had had a portable typewriter which was missing, along with Peta’s luggage.

The day’s questioning began with Deborah Freemantle. Blair thought she was a jolly and friendly type and not at all stuck up like any of the others, that was, until she eagerly told him that she read a lot of detective stories and would like to help him solve the case.